


reconcile

by Anonymous



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Angst, Family, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slice of Life, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29991936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Omi lives a quiet life on the edge of Veludo, until a strange man grabs his wrist and pulls him forward.
Relationships: Fushimi Omi & Minagi Tsuzuru, Fushimi Omi/Ikaruga Misumi, Ikaruga Misumi & Miyoshi Kazunari
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: A3! Big Bang 2021, anonymous





	1. reset

**Author's Note:**

> i will add a more detailed author's note after reveals, but for now: a big thanks to my artist and beta!!!!! i hope everyone enjoys the fic!!

_In my last year of university, I met Nachi's parents at his grave._

_It was the first time I saw them since his funeral. They looked the same as I remembered them, as parents tend to._

_I wondered how I looked to them. Did I look more mature? More lively? Did I wear a skin thick enough to cover up the hollow shell?_

_"If only our son had gotten himself back in order, he might have grown into a fine young man like you." I didn't quite understand their words, but I listened closely. It was the least I could do. "Did he ever tell you? He wanted to – "_

  
  
  
  


The crossing light switches from red to green. The crowd at the sidewalk pushes forward. Omi sticks out among them, a head taller than the rest, and with a work bag larger than the typical briefcase. Even so, he keeps his gaze down, and moves with the crowd.

The foot traffic in Veludo has always been heavy, even at its edges. Parts of the crowd split off at each side street, while others stop to watch a stray performance on the main road. Omi does his best to ignore them, but as usual, his eyes betray him – today they drift to one of the larger audiences, where a man flies high above the crowd. He catches the twinkle of a smile while the man flips through the air, and Omi finds himself gravitating toward it. The man's expression is serious once he lands, before he thrusts out his hand. Although he holds nothing but air, Omi can almost see the weapon he's brandishing, pointed at an invisible foe.

"Ye better think twice before comin' on me ship again," he snarls, before he lowers his invisible sword and turns to the crowd. The tense lines of his face and shoulders melt away, revealing a loose stance and an easy smile. He bows low as the audience claps, and Omi joins in, wondering how in those brief seconds, he had been pulled in like a moth to a lamp, or sand to the sea. The man's body straightens once more to a stand.

His eyes are the color of sunrise.

It isn't until the man tilts his head, their eyes still locked, that Omi realizes he's been staring. He shakes his head and disperses with the rest of the crowd, some leaving tips in the wooden box by the actor's feet. Omi hikes his work bag higher on his shoulder.

A warm hand lands on his wrist.

_(Omi quickly twists his arm away, a sneer on his lips. The face that stares back at him is pitiful. With his boot, he – )_

He turns, a polite smile already gracing his lips. "Um, can I help you with anything?"

The hand on his wrist squeezes, and Omi finally looks up at his assailant, and meets sunrise eyes once more. The man's hair shines silver in the sunlight, and his grin still twinkles, even up close.

"I'm Misumi! It means triangle~" he chimes, his voice light and airy. "What's your name?"

"Fushimi Omi," Omi answers automatically.

"Omi," the man – Misumi – repeats. He squeezes his wrist again. "Are you free?"

Still a bit dumbfounded, Omi nods.

Misumi's grin widens. "Let's go, then!"

Omi's grip on his work bag tightens as Misumi tugs him toward the center of Veludo. Omi should be wary, he thinks – there's a man he's never met, pulling him to an unknown location – but Omi doesn't feel like he's in danger.

 _I've been in worse trouble,_ he thinks. _Maybe just this much is okay._

The pang in his heart says otherwise, but then Misumi is tugging him toward a pair of glass doors, and Omi doesn't have the resolve to leave just yet.

"We're here!" Misumi cheers, then pulls Omi through the entrance of _The Stranger,_ a short string of bells ringing as the door opens.

The interior of _The Stranger_ is surprisingly dim, lit only by the glass windows and shaded lamps, hanging above each table. The floor, tables, and walls are all lined with dark wood, broken up by gold accents and sparse pots of greenery. Large art pieces line the walls, traditional paintings mixed in with pop-art and the occasional landscape. Omi can't help but find the place at odds with the man who brought him, despite knowing nothing about him; the sanguine smile he wears looks like it belongs somewhere bright and pastel, where he won't look like an impossible beacon among the glossy paper menus and the old-fashioned register.

Misumi finally lets go of his wrist, and practically skips over to the man behind the counter, cleaning a glass. Unlike Misumi, the man fits the space like he's been painted there, a deep brown dress shirt accented with a forest green tie. Behind him is a surprisingly full shelf of alcohol, in between a large electric kettle and a shiny espresso machine. Above him is a sign that says _Coffee Hours,_ which Omi suspects flips once the clock strikes eight or so.

The man's lips quirk upward at Misumi's entrance. "No Miyoshi today?" he asks, still cleaning the glass in his hands. Misumi shakes his head, already sliding into one of the stools at the counter.

"I brought a new friend!" Misumi says, and Omi only hesitates for a moment before taking a seat next to him.

The man puts the glass away. "The usual, then?" he continues, and Misumi hums in approval. Omi jumps when the man turns to him, his eyes more piercing than Omi expects. "And you, new friend?"

"Oh, um." Omi briefly glances at the menu propped up on the counter. "Just black coffee."

The man nods, then disappears behind the shelf of alcohol. Misumi swings his legs happily in his seat. Omi taps his fingers against dark wood, belatedly placing his work bag down by his side.

"That's Guy," Misumi explains, his legs briefly pausing as he rests his heels on one of the stool rungs. "He's the owner~"

Omi's fingers slow to a stop. "Um, Misumi," he says carefully. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Hmm..." Misumi hums, leaning his stool on the back two legs. Omi finds his body tensing, getting ready to catch him in case he falls. Misumi's lips purse. "Because Omi seemed interesting?"

"I… see." Omi laces his fingers together. "Is this something you usually do?"

"Something I usually do?"

Omi huffs, then smiles. "Invite strangers to eat with you."

Misumi's front stool legs hit the floor. He starts to swing his legs again. "Nope~!" he chirps. "Just Omi."

The man behind the counter appears again, holding two drinks and a sandwich. "Triangle!" Misumi cheers, when Guy puts the plate in front of him. "Perfect as ever!"

Omi lets out a much more subdued _thank you_ when Guy places down his coffee, the ceramic mug clinking on the tiny plate he puts under it.

"Oh!" Misumi exclaims, before pulling out his phone to snap a picture of his food. Then he bites into his sandwich, humming happily as he eats.

Omi wraps his fingers around his coffee cup. "So..." Omi trails off, feeling strange in the almost-silence. He says the first thing that comes to mind. "You're an actor?"

Omi immediately winces at his words. _What else would he be? A circus performer? An office worker?_

_(He might have grown into a fine young man like you.)_

Misumi nods enthusiastically at his words. He swallows his current mouthful. "I'm part of a theater troupe!"

"Theater, huh…"

_(Did he ever tell you?)_

"Is Omi into theater?" Misumi continues.

Omi's fingers tighten around his mug. "I guess you could say that."

_(He wanted to – )_

"Omi," Misumi says, voice clear and soft. "Can I see your phone?"

The request is quite random, Omi idly thinks, but he finds himself following it, his mind still somewhere far away. He blinks back to reality at the _whoosh_ of an outgoing message, and MIsumi's phone buzzing loudly on the table.

Misumi places Omi's phone back in his hand. At the top is a new contact name – just three triangles, and nothing more – with a single message at the bottom of the screen: _Your new friend!_

"This way Omi can ask anything he wants about theater," Misumi explains.

"That's – " _Very sudden,_ Omi thinks. _Unnecessary._

_Much more than you should be offering someone like me._

"Thank you, Misumi," he answers, and hopes he won't hurt him when Omi ultimately fails to reply.

In the dim lighting of _The Stranger,_ Misumi's eyes are bright. "So what does Omi do?"

The coffee in Omi's cup gradually cools and disappears. Guy moves around the shop silently, cleaning tables in preparation for what Omi assumes will be the nighttime crowd. Misumi's voice rings through the room like the bells on the door, and Omi can't help but be mesmerized by it.

By the time he and Misumi exit _The Stranger,_ the sun is already low in the sky.

"I guess I need to say bye to Omi now," Misumi says, holding his tip box under his arm. Belatedly, Omi notices it's in the shape of a treasure chest. "Bye-bye~"

"Bye, Misumi," Omi responds, before they both step in the same direction.

They pause for a moment before moving again, steps continuing to align. It isn't until they reach Veludo's edge once more that their paths diverge, Misumi turning at a corner Omi still needs to cross.

Misumi shuffles briefly before lifting his hand, waving quickly at Omi as he walks backward down the sidewalk. Omi finds himself waving back at him, even as the crosswalk light turns green. He disappears down the side street, and something bright and bubbly rises in Omi's chest, like a warm breeze in spring.

Omi's hand slows, then stops, as his fingers curl toward the pavement. His arms drops.

"Fushimi-san?" Tsuzuru calls out, when Omi finally walks through the apartment door. Tsuzuru's jacket is slung over one arm, his shoes already on. "Did you get held up at work? You're later than usual today."

Omi tries to smile, but his lips feel stiff like burnt craquelin. "Something like that."

Tsuzuru narrows his eyes, but after a moment, finishes shrugging on his jacket. "I have a night shift at the gas station, so I already ate, but there's fried rice still in the pan for you."

"Thanks," Omi tells him. He steps sideways, out of the way of the door.

His phone dings twice.

  
  
  


_New notification: LIME_

_Message from: Δ Δ Δ_

_I hope Omi makes it home safely!_

  
  
  


_New notification: SMS_

_Message from: UNKNOWN NUMBER_

_I found you._


	2. repeat

_ The night Nachi died, I slept in the hospital. _

_ I had rushed the two of us there on my bike, which, other than some dents and scratches, had miraculously stayed intact after my body was thrown off of it. _

_ I'm not sure how I even drove. My ribs were most definitely bruised, and my ears were ringing. I couldn't feel my face at all. Nachi was limp in front of me, slumped against my chest. The revving of my bike, I was sure, was why I couldn't hear his heartbeat. _

_ He was already dead when we got there. The hospital staff attempted to revive him – for my sake, I think – but it was too late. He was taken away from me, and I, too, was whisked away into that white maze. _

_ I fell asleep to the beat of my own heart monitor, beeping with the steadiness of a clock. It was the only thing that broke through the static of my own thoughts, that raced much too quickly to catch. There was one, though, that I managed to form before I passed out for the night. _

_ 'It should have been me.' _

  
  
  


Misumi texts him again a week later.

_ Are you free at 7? _

Omi glances up at his coworkers, then back down at his phone.

_ I am. Why? _

_ Meet me at Guy's and you'll see! _

_ Okay,  _ Omi types back, after a moment's hesitation.  _ Omi can ask anything he wants about theater,  _ Misumi had said, when he had added his LIME to Omi's phone. He had spoken with a voice like chimes while he offered a kindness Omi didn't – doesn't – deserve. His coworker calls for him, so Omi puts his phone back in his bag, and pushes the strange man with sunrise eyes out of his mind until evening.

Omi arrives at  _ The Stranger  _ ten minutes early. Tsuzuru had shot him a curious look when he left the apartment, but hadn't pried further. Lost in his musings, Omi almost misses Misumi already standing outside the glass doors of the coffeeshop. He's staring intensely at his phone, but when Omi approaches, he looks up at him with a bright grin and brighter eyes. "Omi!" he cheers, putting his phone in his pocket.

"And I thought I got here early," Omi jokes, his voice cracking toward the end.

Misumi doesn't respond, and instead starts rummaging through his pockets, before pulling out two glossy strips of paper. Misumi hands over one of the strips.  _ The Two Princes,  _ it reads, in big block letters. Misumi bounces on his toes. "Omi is interested in theater, right?"

"I am," Omi confirms, his fingers tightening around the paper. "But you didn't have to go out of your way to buy me a ticket," he continues. "How much was it? I'll pay you back."

Misumi just giggles and waves his hand. "My friend is performing, so I asked just them for an extra~"

Omi's jaw clenches. "But – "

"No buts~" Misumi trills, already making his way down the sidewalk. "It's already taken care of."

Omi forces his jaw to relax. He strides forward to walk next to Misumi, following him down the street. Tree-lined roads give way to the heart of Veludo, where the distinct colorful flags hang from the buildings. Misumi goes starry-eyed at the sight, before skipping faster toward their destination. Crisp air fills Omi's lungs as he jogs to catch up.

They arrive at a medium-sized theater, with red velvet curtains and rows of black fabric seats. Even while seated, Misumi is constantly in motion, his arms practically swinging as he chatters about the upcoming play. Eventually, the lights dim, and the voices throughout the theater quiet. Misumi straightens up next to him.

When the curtains rise, Misumi falls completely still.

Omi's attention is quickly stolen by the stage, where a single spotlight shines over an empty throne. Two princes kneel by the throne in glittering costumes, their heads bowed toward an imaginary king.  _ My sons,  _ the king says, voiceover ringing across the theater.  _ You will prove to me who is more fit for the throne. _

The rest of the stage lights up, and the second prince disappears. The play follows the first prince, who sets out to conquer new lands to prove himself worthy. He garners help from various fairytale characters, until at last, a witch betrays him, and leaves him to despair. "I have accomplished nothing," the first prince monologues, from his cell in a faraway land. "I thought I had shown people kindness with my promises, but instead I show cruelty by not fulfilling them. I will lose the throne to my brother, who I will never see again."

As the first prince accepts his fate, the second prince saves him from his prison. "I have abandoned my duties to accompany you," the second prince declares. "This is not to guilt you," he continues. The prince's expression softens, and he holds out his hand. "You are simply my weakness."

The play ends with the two princes back in front of the throne. The first prince plans to throw away the crown, but the second prince speaks before he can. "Please," the second prince begins, his hand over his heart, "let us prove ourselves once more."

The audience applauds as the curtain lowers. Misumi practically vibrates in his seat as the lights turn back on, then turns to Omi with a grin. "What did Omi think?" he asks, as more quiet voices fill the building.

Omi blinks out of his slight stupor, still partially lost in the world from the stage. "It was good," Omi replies, a little dumbly. Misumi doesn't seem to mind his answer, only humming in response as the actors come back out for curtain call. As soon as it finishes, Misumi is up and moving, dragging Omi by the wrist through the audience and toward the stage. He makes a sharp turn, and then Omi is being dragged into the backstage area, past messy costume racks and crowded mirrors.

"Misumi?" Omi interjects. "Should I really be back here?"

"It's fine," Misumi chimes, then waves his hand high above his head. "Banri~!"

The second prince himself looks up from where he's sitting, carefully swiping a makeup wipe across his face. "Yo," he says, when the two of them reach him. He raises an eyebrow at Omi. "Who's this?"

"This is Omi!" Misumi answers. His eyes flicker around the room. "Is Juza here?"

"He's not comin' to watch until closin' night," Banri answers, turning back to the mirror. He scrubs the wipe under his eye. "Still don't really know who you are, but nice to meet you, Omi."

Omi lifts his free hand to scratch at his neck, belatedly noting Misumi still has his other wrist. "I guess you could say Misumi and I are… friends."

Banri grunts in reply. Up on stage, he had looked like the perfect prince. He fought with strength and valor, and stood with an effortlessly commanding presence, despite his relatively short time on the stage. Up close like this, though, Omi can see his hair slipping from its perfect bun, the loose strands sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and the empty piercings holes dotting his ear. He sits carelessly, with his shoulders slouched and legs spread. Even his speech is coarser, like the bristles of a wire brush instead of the velvet of a king's cape.

"Omi's interested in theater," Misumi continues, unbothered by Banri's dismissiveness.

"Oh?" Banri says, practically baring his teeth with the force of his grin. Were it not for the sparkle in his eyes, Omi would think he was looking for a fight.

He wonders if Nachi would have looked the same.

Misumi and Banri continue to converse, but Omi isn't listening. At some point, Misumi manages to drag him out of the backstage area, and then out of the theater, and it isn't until they reach the corner where their paths should split that Omi finds his voice again.

"Thanks for inviting me, Misumi." The now-chilly air dries Omi's throat.

"Of course!" Misumi cheers. "I'm happy Omi came." When Omi doesn't respond, Misumi waves and turns the corner, before quickly twisting back around. He taps his fingers on his thighs. "What was your favorite part?" he asks.

Omi runs the play through his head – thinks about princesses and fairies and witches, about swords shining through cell doors. He chooses none of these. "When the second prince held out his hand."

Misumi's answering smile is small. "Me too," he whispers.

Then much like their first meeting, Misumi waves once more before trotting away and out of sight.

Omi waits for the light to turn green before stepping onto the crosswalk. After a step, he pauses. He glances behind him.

Nothing but pavement.


	3. reminder

_ I stayed at the hospital for about a month. _

_ My dad and brothers visited as much as they could – but my dad was a single, working man, and my brothers were still young. I told them I'd be fine by myself. 'I have a concussion, so I can't do much anyway' – that's what I would tell them. For the most part, it was true. For the first week or so, I would sleep the days away, the pain in my jaw and the static in my head keeping me unconscious. _

_ The first week was the easiest. _

  
  
  


Over the next few weeks, Omi's phone becomes an extension of his arm.

Misumi becomes a constant fixture in his phone notifications, article links and flyer scans quickly filling the spaces between work emails and the occasional update from Tsuzuru. The anonymous text still sits threateningly on his phone, but no new messages arrive, and Omi finds himself gradually relaxing. The message feels out of place in Omi's newly boring life, where his biggest excitements are Misumi and flash sales at the grocery store.

Despite Misumi's unpredictable energy, the slots he takes in Omi's life are surprisingly routine. They meet weekly at  _ The Stranger,  _ where Misumi always arrives with something new to show him. Sometimes he mysteriously produces play tickets again – his friend Kazu has many connections, it seems – and other times, he brings play recordings to watch on Guy's laptop. Every now and then, Misumi will drag Omi outside to watch street acts, sometimes putting on his own.

As the weeks go on, their conversations slowly shift from theater to other interests. Omi limits himself to stories about work or living with Tsuzuru, and occasionally talks about his little brothers at home. Misumi easily fills the gaps Omi leaves, talking about anything and everything. The part-time jobs he's picked up. The cats in Veludo. Triangle hunting, which Omi still doesn't quite understand, beyond sending Misumi pictures of triangular objects when he can. He talks about his friends the most, Banri and Juza and Kazu, who Omi swears he knows more than himself at this point.

He knows a lot about Kazu.

Kazu is Misumi's roommate, and Misumi's first friend. Kazu is an artist, and he made all the paintings hanging on the walls of  _ The Stranger.  _ Kazu's phone case is green, and he is a social media star. Kazu and Misumi are having friends over, and Misumi wants Omi to be there, too.

"Are you sure?" Omi questions, their current play recording paused for the intermission.

Misumi hums. "I am!" he answers, his legs swinging in front of his stool as always. "Banri and Juza will be there, too, so you can learn more about theater that way."

_ Ah,  _ Omi thinks.  _ After all our conversations, I had almost forgotten.  _ "Then I'd love to," he replies, ignoring the building ache in his heart.

  
  
  


Next time they leave  _ The Stranger,  _ Omi follows Misumi home.

The grass along the sidewalk is still damp from yesterday's rain. Omi has been bringing his umbrella everywhere, lately, to avoid the near-constant downpours. The two of them are lucky, today, with the sun peeking out from between the clouds, and the summer heat a gentle buzz around them.

When they reach Misumi's apartment, Misumi rummages briefly through his pockets before knocking on the door. "Kazu~!" he calls.

There's the sound of people shuffling behind the door, followed by a  _ Tsuzurun, can you get that?  _ More shuffling, and then the door finally opens. Omi blinks twice at the face that appears.

"Tsuzuru?"

"Fushimi-san?"

Misumi's eyes dart back and forth between them. "You know each other?"

Before either of them can answer, another face pops into the doorway. "Sumi," the man whines, holding no less than three bowls of chips, "you left your key on the table again!"

"Sorry~" Misumi apologizes, not sounding very sorry. The man in the doorway rolls his eyes fondly before walking back into the apartment, and Misumi hops past Omi and Tsuzuru to follow him.

Omi chuckles awkwardly. "Is that the famous Miyoshi-san?"

Tsuzuru snickers, stepping aside and sweeping his arm inside the apartment. "And is Ikaruga-san the one you've been messaging all the time?"

Omi averts his gaze before stepping through the doorway. Voices shout from further inside the apartment while Omi toes off his shoes.

"Wha – you can't you put the bowl in my  _ lap!" _

"But then it makes a triangle with the other bowls!"

"Make the triangle another way!"

Omi and Tsuzuru step fully into the living area. Most of it is dominated by a wooden low table, surrounded by cushions on three sides and a couch along the fourth. Misumi sits on one of the floor cushions, while Banri sits on the couch, a bowl of chips perched in his lap. Hanging over him is Miyoshi, laughing boisterously. Sitting on the couch to Banri's left is Nachi.

_ Wait. _

Omi shakes his head, willing his eyes to adjust.  _ That isn't Nachi,  _ he thinks, but the resemblance is uncanny. The swept back hair, the thick eyebrows, the sharp, diamond eyes – it's like looking at a photograph that Omi simply doesn't remember taking.

"U-um," Omi manages to stutter, then takes off down the side hallway.

It's either luck or mercy that leads Omi to the bathroom first, where he quickly enters and shuts the door behind him. He grips the sink and desperately gulps in air, but none of it seems to reach his lungs. Each inhale becomes shorter and shorter, and the bathroom walls tower over him like a cage.

After what may be a minute or many, a set of knuckles tap against the bathroom door. "Fushimi-san?" a soft voice calls out. "Are you in there?"

Omi gasps, his throat constricting around nothing.

"Did Juza really scare you that much?" Tsuzuru jokes, although it doesn't quite land. "You don't need to worry about him, the only one he's ever hit here is Banri." Tsuzuru forcibly chuckles, and Omi clenches his eyes shut. "He's one year younger than me," Tsuzuru continues. "Apparently, he almost went to Yosei, but decided on Amabi last minute." Tsuzuru laughs more genuinely. "He has a big sweet tooth, but you didn't hear it from me."

Omi latches onto Tsuzuru's words, and his breathing gradually slows. The off-color photograph in Omi's mind becomes less like a memory and more like a painting, with the details filled in and the similarities shaded over. He unclenches his fingers from around the sink, and flushes the toilet for a semblance of normality. He washes his hands, and splashes water on his face, then opens up the bathroom door. Tsuzuru's eyes are soft, quickly sweeping over him before nodding at whatever he sees. The two of them return to the living area, where the others are chatting more calmly.

"Sorry about that," Omi mumbles, sitting down on one of the floor cushions.

Banri waves his hand. "Don't worry about it, man," he dismisses. "It's not your fault Tsuzuru accidentally poisoned your lunch today."

Omi quickly glances at Tsuzuru, sitting on the floor next to Miyoshi, but Tsuzuru only rubs his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, I haven't been sleeping enough."

Miyoshi flops onto Tsuzuru's shoulder. "You  _ never  _ sleep enough," he complains. "You were sleep deprived all through high school! By the way, Sumi," he continues, "you haven't introduced your hot friend yet!"

_ "Miyoshi-san!"  _ Tsuzuru scolds. "That's my roommate you're talking about!"

Miyoshi abruptly shakes Tsuzuru's shoulders. "You never told me you had a hot roommate, Tsuzurun!"

"I didn't think it was important information!"

Banri cackles. "So you agree that he's hot?"

"I mean, like, objectively speaking!" Tsuzuru quickly turns to Omi. "Please don't take this the wrong way, Fushimi-san, I can't afford an apartment on my own."

Omi only nods in amusement.

"This is Omi!" Misumi finally interjects. "He's interested in theater."

Juza immediately perks up. "You're an actor too?"

Omi forces himself to focus on the shade of Juza's hair, instead of the similarities. "No, I just have a passing interest," Omi explains. "I actually work at a photography company."

"OMG, another art bud!" Miyoshi exclaims. "What do you do, what do you do?"

Omi finds himself dragged into the conversation like he's a pebble in the ocean, and Miyoshi is the tide. His voice recedes to let the others speak freely, and rises to fill silences with ease. Omi can easily see the person Misumi had described to him, but no description could have prepared Omi for the sheer amount of energy he exudes.

By the time Miyoshi excuses himself to the kitchen,  _ Miyoshi  _ has become  _ Kazunari,  _ and all three bowls of chips have depleted considerably. Tsuzuru and Misumi have branched off into their own conversation, although there seems to be more exasperated arm waving than any talking going on. Banri leans closer to Omi as Kazunari exits.

"Yo," Banri says, sliding forward on the couch. His hair is down, today, rather than hooked up in its princely bun. Three silver piercings line his left ear. "You wanted to ask Hyodo and I about acting, right? Might as well do it before Kazunari comes back and starts rambling again."

Omi swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "Why did you start acting?"

"I needed a challenge," Banri immediately answers. "Everything else is just way too easy."

"I… see…"

"You can ignore Settsu," Juza cuts in, ignoring Banri's indignant  _ hey!  _ "Although I agree that acting is a challenge." Juza sits up a little straighter. "I started acting so I could change."

_ Change, huh? Is that what Nachi wanted? _ Omi traces random patterns with his fingers on the low table. "And do you still enjoy it?"

Banri and Juza share a look. When they look back at Omi, their eyes are practically sparking, their mouths stretched into shark-like grins.

"I guess it's kinda fun," Banri admits. Juza nods in agreement. Across from then, Misumi and Tsuzuru's voices increase in volume.

"Would you die for it?" Omi mumbles.

"Hah?" Banri questions. "For a big dude, you can speak real quietly."

Omi smiles serenely. "Nevermind. It was unimportant."

Banri shrugs, then leans back on the couch. "If you say so."

Behind Banri, Kazunari struts into the room, carrying a cake slice in one hand and a lighter in the other. "I'm back~!" he trills, then places down the cake slice in front of the now-silent Misumi. The cake is adorned with three yellow candles, arranged to form a triangle. Omi blinks in surprise at the sight, but Juza places a hand on Omi's shoulder, catching his attention. He shakes his head.

"Oh right," Banri comments, his voice painfully casual. "So that's what today is."

"You know how it goes, Settsuar," Kazunari chimes, while lighting the candles on the cake. Tsuzuru gets up to turn off the lights. He stands up with a flourish. "So what song are we singing this year, fam?"

_ "I Want It That Way," _ Juza deadpans.

Banri sneers. "Why would we sing  _ that?" _

"Because it's funky and recognizable."

"The candles will melt before we finish!"

"Um," Misumi interrupts, blinking down at his plate. "I want to sing  _ Moonlight Legend." _

Kazunari claps his hands. "You heard him, fam!  _ Moonlight Legend _ it is!"

Kazunari immediately starts humming the intro. Omi joins in to sing for the parts he remembers, but it's Kazunari and Banri who lead the show. Misumi sings along quietly, the candlelight dancing over the skin of his nose.

After the last note of the outro rings out, Misumi blows out the candles. Kazunari and Banri cheer loudly, while the rest of them give a more subdued applause.

Kazunari squats down, and throws an arm over Misumi's shoulders. "What did you wish for, Sumi?"

Misumi's eyes glisten, before closing with the force of his grin. "For more triangles, of course!"

Kazunari shoots a pair of finger guns. "Luckily for you, there's still more cake to slice up."

"Triangles~!" Misumi choruses, and Omi wonders if he imagined the sad twinkle.

After eating cake and saying his farewells, Omi leaves Misumi's apartment with Tsuzuru, a new set of LIME contacts, and a promise to get Misumi a late birthday triangle.

"So," Tsuzuru drawls on the walk back. "Ikaruga-san, huh?"

"What about him?" Omi carefully asks.

"Is he not the person you've been messaging all the time?"

Right on cue, Omi's phone buzzes loudly in his pocket.

Tsuzuru laughs. "Are you not going to check that, Fushimi-san?"

Omi tries to resist, but after a moment, pulls out his phone from his pocket. "Since when were you so cheeky," Omi retorts.

_ Thanks for coming,  _ Misumi's text reads.  _ I liked having Omi there! _

Tsuzuru laughs again. "I'm the third of ten brothers, I've always been like this."

_ Thank you for inviting me,  _ Omi texts back.  _ I had a fun time too. _

The air outside has cooled a bit, gray clouds rolling in for a night of rain. Even so, the sun's pink-purple light still reaches the sidewalk, and the tint of an evening moon graces the sky. "Not even listening, huh?" Tsuzuru teases. His voice softens. "You somehow seem livelier, Fushimi-san. It's a good look on you."

Omi locks his phone, and places it back in his pocket.

  
  
  


"Fushimi," Guy calls out, the next time Omi arrives at  _ The Stranger. _

Omi nods in greeting, settling into his usual seat at the counter. The coffeeshop is suspiciously empty as usual, but Omi has learned not to question it. He traces now-familiar dark wood under his finger.

"Fushimi," Guy repeats, a little more urgently. He steps forward, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Someone came here looking for you, a few days ago."

Omi's hand freezes.

"He gave a name and a description," Guy continues. "I told him I had never seen you before. When he asked if I was sure, I told him that the man he described would surely be hard to miss. He grumbled something unintelligible before finally leaving."

Omi's lips part, but no sound comes out.

Guy straightens. He turns toward the coffee machine. "Do you know of anyone who would be looking for you, Fushimi?"

The bells on the glass door ring.

"Omi!" Misumi cheers, clutching a cardboard box in his arms. "I brought more recordings! I couldn't choose, so Omi should decide today." Misumi pauses. "Omi?"

"I'm fine," Omi lies. "What shows did you bring?"

Misumi opens his mouth, then closes it again. He shifts his weight on his feet, then trots the rest of the way to the counter. "Banri lent me some! I think this one is about – "

Omi listens to Misumi's summaries with half an ear. He picks the one play title he manages to remember, while Guy brings out iced coffee and sandwiches, cut into their usual triangular halves. Omi eats his sandwich mechanically, his gaze periodically flitting to the door. It isn't until Guy pointedly puts down another plate that Omi pays attention to the recording, although his eyes continue to stray.

"Omi," Misumi says, when the recording is over. He taps his feet against the stool. "Do you want to come over again?"

Misumi looks up at him, then, his sunrise eyes wide and hopeful.  _ Yes,  _ Omi thinks.

_ Someone came here looking for you. _

Omi exhales, and shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says instead, lips pulling into a sheepish smile. "I actually have some work documents to fill that I've been neglecting. Maybe next time?"

Misumi hums, his feet swinging minutely under the counter. "Next time."

Omi belatedly picks up his drink. It's lukewarm.

For the first time, the two of them walk separate directions out of  _ The Stranger.  _ Omi takes the long way home, looping through unfamiliar side streets. As he passes convenience stores and yellowing bushes, his thoughts race like motorcycles, throwing dirt and pebbles off the road.

_ You should have walked him home. _

_ You need to stay away. _

_ You should be protecting him. _

_ You would just put him in danger. _

Tsuzuru is already gone by the time Omi arrives at the apartment. Omi drifts to the kitchen, his hands working on autopilot – rolling omelettes, grilling fish. After nearly adding sugar instead of salt, and worcestershire instead of soy sauce, and finding himself with enough leftovers for three more bento boxes, Omi finally decides to stop. He cleans the dishes for longer than strictly necessary, then takes an early shower before heading to bed.

That night, Omi's dreams are plagued by Nachi.

They're sitting under a bridge, the sun dyeing everything orange. The ground is still damp beneath them. Nachi turns toward him, but when he opens his mouth, the tide rises, sweeping them both away. And then they're riding on their bikes, and Nachi's laughter fills the air, until it doesn't, and Omi is riding alone. His ribs are aching.

Then Omi is surrounded, until he's not. His enemies are no more than bodies on the ground, just barely breathing. A hand weakly latches onto his forearm. Omi quicks twists his arm away, a sneer on his lip. The face that stares back at him is pitiful. With the heel of his boot, he pushes their forehead back down to the ground, and turns their torso to face the dirt.

When he looks up, a pair of gray eyes stares back at him.

Omi wakes up in a cold sweat, the moonlight just barely peeking through his curtains. He focuses on the blinding whitish-silver until his eyes burn and he somehow manages to fall asleep once more.

When he wakes up for the second time, the summer sun bathes the room in a yellow glow. White dust specks float through the air around his bed. Omi reaches for his phone.

_ New notification: LIME _

_ Message from: Δ Δ Δ _

_ Are you still busy with work? There's a show I want to take you to! _

Omi closes his eyes.

_ Someone came here looking for you. _

_ I found you. _

He opens them.

  
  
  


_ Message to: Δ Δ Δ _

_ It looks like I'll be busy for a while, so I don't think I can meet up as much. _

_ Message from: Δ Δ Δ _

_ Oh, okay! At least we can still text~ _

_ Message to: Δ Δ Δ _

_ Of course. _


	4. retry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (includes art at the end of the chapter!! artist to be revealed teehee)

_ Once I could stay awake more than a couple hours at a time, the hospital staff told me the extent of my injuries. _

_ Bruised ribs, as I suspected. The concussion, that had been keeping me asleep. A sprained ankle and wrist. My pinky finger, of all things, was fractured. _

_ And a cut, along my jaw, from a piece of shrapnel. _

_ The placement was lucky, the nurse had said. At a slightly different angle, I could have lost an eye, or a nose. It would most likely scar. _

_ That was when I laughed. _

_ My bike was still intact, sitting in the garage at home. I had driven it, all the way to the hospital. There had been dents, and scratches, but every piece had been in place. Our attackers, too, had all driven off. _

_ The metal that hit me must have come from Nachi's bike. _

_ It was Nachi's bike that left a scar. _

  
  
  


Tsuzuru slams his hand on the table. "Fushimi-san," he declares, "you are being ridiculous."

Omi calmly eats another bite of rice. It's one of their rare free mornings together, when Tsuzuru doesn't have an early shift who-knows-where, and Omi doesn't have errands to run. "Am I?" Omi replies. At the corner of their kitchen, an electric fan whirrs.

"You are," Tsuzuru confirms. "You've been staring holes into your phone for weeks now, and your eyebags are starting to rival mine." He narrows his eyes. "You haven't been out with Ikaruga-san lately, either. Did something happen?"

Omi takes another bite of rice.

"Look," Tsuzuru says, "I've been trying to give you space because you are your own person, but as I've stated your fretting is frankly becoming ridiculous."

"I'm fine," Omi tells him.

"Fushimi-san," Tsuzuru repeats. "It's  _ bothering  _ me."

Without waiting for a response, Tsuzuru stands, bringing his dishes to the sink to wash. The staticky sound of the running water combines with the buzz from the fan. "You wouldn't avoid anything this much unless it mattered. So stop avoiding it."

Omi sighs, and puts down his chopsticks. He opens Misumi's last set of messages.

_ Hi Omi! Kazu and I are going to the summer festival this weekend! Do you want to come? _

_ I know you've been busy lately, but I really, really want you to come to the festival tonight. Banri and Juza will be there, too. _

_ I want to watch the fireworks together. _

Tsuzuru finishes washing his dishes, and gives Omi one last pointed look before holing himself up in his room. Omi picks up his chopsticks again. He thinks about his nightmares. About the shadow he swears follows him, whenever he's on the street. About the text he got months ago. About Guy's warning. He thinks about Misumi, and the way he reached out to Omi that day. The way that he's still holding on.

Omi knows that feeling.

He starts a new message.

_ I'm going. When and where should I meet you? _

_ I'll protect you,  _ he continues to type, but deletes it before hitting  _ Send. _

  
  
  


The festival grounds are a bit of a walk away, but not so far that Omi can't do so. The air is surprisingly crisp for a July evening, pleasantly filling Omi's lungs. The fuzzy glow of hanging lanterns mixes with the light of the setting sun as Omi nears the festival grounds. Kazunari waves wildly at him from the entrance. His two-tone _jinbei_ is surprisingly plain, with pale stripes crossed over by a deeper blue.

"Kazunari," Omi greets, with a more reserved wave of his own. His gaze wanders on its own accord, flitting around the stalls visible from where they stand.

Kazunari laughs and latches onto his arm. Omi sheepishly glances back at him. “You're probably wondering where the others are, right?" Kazunari comments, then starts to drag the two of them through the entrance. "Settsuar and Hyodoru already left to be on their own, but Sumi just ran off toward a crepe stand he saw. Don't worry, your man will be back soon~"

"Um, that's not…"

Kazunari unhelpfully winks at him. "It's so sad Tsuzurun has work, though," he rambles while searching through the crowd. "Totes not cool, but that's Tsuzurun for you." After a moment, he perks up, and brings his free hand up to his mouth. "Sumi!" he calls out, then once more puts his arm up to wildly wave.

"Kazu!" Misumi answers, followed by the soft click of wooden sandals. His yukata is patterned with wide yellow triangles, and as expected, one of his hands is occupied by a partially eaten crepe. Omi's gaze softens at the sight.

Kazunari releases Omi's arm as soon as Misumi is close enough, and latches onto Misumi instead, looping their arms together. Misumi looks up at Omi, then, eyes giving off the same fuzzy glow as the lanterns surrounding them.

"Hi," Omi says, rather dumbly.

Misumi's gaze flits downward, dark blue hair pins catching the light. Before Omi can try to speak again, Misumi holds out his free arm, bent at the elbow. Omi carefully loops his arm with Misumi's own, and just like that, the three of them walk further into the festival grounds.

Rows of colorful stalls line the pavement, while warm-colored lanterns seemingly float above them. Meat and noodles sizzle on long griddles, the smokey scent of  _ yakitori  _ drifting past, mixing with the sugary smells of cotton candy and the crepe still in Misumi's hand. Kazunari chatters about his week as they walk, and Omi nods along while Misumi  _ oohs  _ and  _ ahhs.  _ Omi feels bad about not fully listening, but he finds himself distracted by the crinkle of Misumi's sunrise-eyes, and the way all of Misumi's teeth show when he smiles, and the subtle shine of his hair pins, when they reflect the lantern light. During a break between stories, he briefly meets Kazunari's eyes. Kazunari only winks at him again, and Omi can't do much other than look away as Misumi tugs the two of them forward.

They stop in front of a goldfish-scooping game, purchasing nets before kneeling in front of the long, blue tank. The clear water ripples and shines, loops of reflected light breaking and reforming on its surface. Hoards of goldfish swim in the depths, their bodies glimmering orange, with some splattered white and black. The paper net and plastic bowl he's given look oddly small in his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Misumi's tongue sticking out in concentration, while Kazunari laughs at his already-broken scoop. Misumi's hand shoots down, before pulling out an orange goldfish dotted with white. He quickly slides it into his bowl, taking a moment to admire it before turning back toward the tank. Omi follows him, letting his gaze trail over the swirling fish. He dips his net into the water, next to one of the fishes painted with black.

A breeze rushes past the stall.

Omi immediately jolts upward, his eyes flitting down the line of game stalls. At the end of the row, a portion of shadow momentarily darkens. Omi's heart rate spikes.

"Omi?" Misumi asks, still holding his scoop above the water.

Omi smiles weakly at him. "It's nothing," he assures. He glances downward.

His net is torn.

They leave the goldfish scooping booth shortly after, Misumi taking three speckled goldfish with him. While Misumi's arm is still warm against his, everything else passes by in a blur. Every game feels like an illusion, and the  _ takoyaki  _ they eat tastes like rubber in his mouth. Every shadow seems to jump to the foreground as the night goes on.

At some point, Omi's phone dings with an incoming message. He pulls out his phone.

_ Message from: UNKNOWN NUMBER _

_ I see you. _

“Are the fireworks starting soon?” Misumi asks, oblivious to the way Omi’s blood runs cold.

“Settsuar just messaged me~” Kazunari answers. “He and Hyodoru already found a spot to sit, so we can go meet them there.”

Omi's head whips around, his eyes darting frantically. At the end of the row of stalls, a jacket flutters out of sight.

"... Omi?" Misumi calls.

"I – " Omi unwinds his arm from Misumi's – "I'm sorry," he states. "I – I have to go." He slips off his wooden sandals, grabbing them from the ground as he backs away. "I'm sorry."

For a split second, he sees Misumi's mouth open, but Omi is already turning in the other direction, his feet carrying him past the festival's orange lights, illuminating his way in the now-dark night.

Omi rounds the corner, passing by the  _ takoyaki  _ stand once more. He sees a glint of metal before meeting cold eyes. Their gazes break, and silent footsteps rush away. Omi chases after them. People startle and make way as Omi passes them, but Omi can't see anything beyond the shadow he's chasing, his shoes clutched tightly in his hand.

He's led out of the festival, down one side street, then another, and another. The strings of lanterns give way for blinding streetlights, the bright white bulbs making Omi's head spin. His bare feet ache, but he continues onward, his muscles protesting as he forces them to pick up one last burst of speed.

The lot he reaches is dark, and quiet, far away from the bustle of the festival grounds. The pavement is cracked and faded. Omi's eyes dart around like he's an animal in a cage, but there are no steel bars here. There is no gatekeeper, and there is no shadow. No eyes. He pants into the night air.

Behind him, gentle footsteps tap closer before coming to a stop. Omi clenches his fists and turns on his heel.

“Just leave me  _ alone!”  _ he shouts, before his eyes land on the figure.

Wooden shoes. A yukata, patterned with triangles. No jacket in sight.

The first firework bursts in the sky.

Misumi smiles weakly at him, the corners of his lips just barely pulling upward. Under the white of the streetlights, his hair shines silver, like the moon. The bottoms of his eyes twinkle like stars.

“Misumi – ”

Misumi bows, the tips of his hair falling out from their clips, once so carefully placed. Then he turns, his feet quickly breaking out into a run. Each hit of his shoes against the pavement rings loudly in Omi's ears.

Misumi turns the corner. The clicking of his wooden sandals fades away. Another firework paints the sky.

Omi stands there, barefoot, long after the smoke in the sky has cleared.


	5. rewind

_ I returned to school a month after the accident, a hollow husk of myself. _

_ I finished my third year quietly to the too-early fall of the cherry blossoms. Despite my affiliation with the Wolves throughout high school, I had studied hard and applied to a few nearby universities, on Nachi's insistence to 'do as I please.' _

_ The following September, I began my first term at Yosei University, where I studied diligently. Through a connection from an upperclassman, I even landed a job straight after graduation. A couple years later, I moved in with one of my younger classmates at the edge of Veludo, where rent is more affordable. _

_ Comfortably I settled into my new routine – as someone quiet, as someone kind. _

_ Even empty shells, I suppose, are still tossed around by the ocean. _

  
  
  


In their university cafeteria, second-year Tsuzuru Minagi poses a question.

"Fushimi-san," he asks him, "why do you keep people at a distance?"

Like a wave building on the shore, Omi's foam castle comes crashing down.

Even in his first year, Tsuzuru Minagi has eye bags the size of oceans.

Omi first meets him outside an old class building, where a set of stone benches sometimes catches the sun. Omi looks up at the call of his name, and is briefly surprised by the man running toward him. His jacket flaps wildly in the wind, and his hair blows across his forehead like the stubborn leaves behind him, clinging to their branches. His bag might as well be filled with rocks, with the way it sags from his shoulders. The ends of his shoelaces are frayed.

"Fushimi-san," the other student repeats, when he finally reaches him. "You're part of the photography club, right?"

"I am," Omi answers, because he is.

"So," the student starts, pulling his bag off his shoulder, "the literature club wants to create a magazine to publish in the beginning of March, and in addition to written pieces we want some art and photography entries." He pulls out a packet of paper from his bag. "Can you give this to the photography club president? It's from the literature club president about the details for the magazine."

_ Sure,  _ Omi almost says as he gingerly takes the packet, but something stops him. Maybe it's the almost clinical way the student delivers his message. Maybe it's the subtle defiance in the student's eyes, like he knows he's being unjustly used as an errand boy. Maybe it's the slope of his shoulders that says he's dealt with worse.

Omi's lips quirk upward without his permission. "And may I ask who is giving the request?"

"What?" the student blurts. "I just said it was from the literature club."

Omi waits. The sun ever so slightly shifts in the sky.

The student abruptly bows. Omi nearly jumps back at the sudden movement, the packet of paper crumpling slightly under his fingers. "Minagi Tsuzuru," the student states, still bent over. "First year. It's nice to meet you, Fushimi-san." The student – Minagi – straightens. He grins cheekily. "Thanks for being my deliveryman."

Before Omi can reply, Minagi runs off again, shrugging his overloaded bag back onto his shoulder as he jogs away. Omi sighs.

_ He just needed a favor,  _ he thinks.  _ I probably won't see him again. _

Omi tucks the packet into his bag. He's here to study, not to make friends. When needed, he'll be kind. He's going to learn to be kind.

Tsuzuru Minagi, he finds, is already kinder than he'll ever be.

  
  
  


For a long time, Omi lies awake in his room. When he turns the light off to sleep, the shadows in his room flicker like negative lanterns, their darkness swaying like a breeze across the floor. Omi turns the light back on.

The front door creaks open as Tsuzuru returns from his night shift. His shoes thump hollowly in the entryway, before socked feet pad quietly across the floor.

The footsteps pause. Tsuzuru's feet cast shadowy columns under the door.

After a moment, the footsteps continue onward.

  
  
  


To Omi's surprise, Tsuzuru Minagi does not disappear like a leaf in the wind.

The very next day, Minagi accosts him in the cafeteria, his bag hitting the floor next to him with a  _ thunk. _

"Fushimi-san," he asks, his expression deadly serious, "have you ever considered murdering one of your friends?"

Omi should be offended, he thinks. Maybe a bit horrified. If Omi was a little kinder, his heart would be sinking like a rock at the reminder. Instead, Omi finds himself laughing at the absurdity – maybe this is Minagi's true charm. "I can't say I have."

"It sucks," Minagi continues. "He's so popular, too. I would never be able to get away with it. He'd probably post something on his Inste as I murdered him."

Omi's eyes crinkle. "And because you'd miss him?"

Minagi's hand relaxes around his chopsticks. He gently scoops up a clump of rice, chewing thoughtfully. He swallows. "Yeah, I would," he admits. "Eventually. But only after relishing in my newfound peace and quiet for a few days." Minagi indelicately snorts. "Miyoshi-san would slap me if he heard any of this. Not that his hits really hurt, anyway."

"He sounds like a good guy," Omi comments.

Minagi swirls his chopsticks through his rice. "You could say that."

From then on, Minagi becomes a regular fixture in Omi's otherwise bland university life.

  
  
  


He's running.

His surroundings glow a fuzzy orange, like the sun. Like fire.

In the fire, there is a shadow.

Omi chases after it, the shadow's back just barely out of reach. After an eternity, the shadow stops. Their surroundings flair.

The shadow turns. Their orange eyes glow, and their hair pins glint. They thrust a wooden sword at Omi's chest.

_ Ye better think twice before comin' on me ship again, _ Misumi snarls, and the blade in his hand turns to metal. He slices upward, just barely nicking Omi's jaw, as his sunrise eyes turn silver.

Omi wakes up.

  
  
  


_ "Fushimi-san." _

"Tsuzuru," Omi answers. He stares up at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom. The rain patters quietly above it. "It's been a while since you called. You graduated recently, right?"

_ "I did, Fushimi-san."  _ Tsuzuru pauses.  _ "Actually, um. I had a question. Well, more like a request…" _

Omi sits up in his bed."What is it?" he asks.  _ And why did you come to me? _

_ "I'm, well… I'm finally moving out of the house. To live on my own. But not on my own?" _

Omi hums. "That sounds great, Tsuzuru."

_ "Right?"  _ Tsuzuru agrees, his voice the slightest bit too loud for the night. He clears his throat.  _ "But living on your own is expensive, and you know me…" _

Omi lies back down, a small smile rising on his face. "You hate expensive things?"

_ "I can't afford expensive things,"  _ Tsuzuru deadpans. He huffs into the speaker.  _ "So I was wondering,"  _ he continues,  _ "will you be my roommate?" _

"Me?" Omi questions.

Tsuzuru chuckles.  _ "Yeah,"  _ he confirms.  _ "Who else could I possibly stand 24/7?" _

Omi turns his head on the pillow, gazing through his window to the empty street. Somewhere beyond the glass is a riverbed, the grass damp and muddy from the rain. Even further, a road, stains washed away long ago. His feet dangle off the bed.  _ What's the point in going?  _ Omi thinks.

_ What's the point in staying here? _

The tide rises, and Omi's shell thins. In that moment, he realizes, more than anything, he's scared to find what's underneath. With each wave that passes, he becomes more and more convinced that it's nothing at all.

He doesn't want to find nothing at all.

"Okay," Omi agrees.

_ "Wait, really?"  _ Tsuzuru exclaims.

"Really," Omi confirms.

Outside his bedroom, the rainwater washes down the gutter.

  
  
  


Footsteps pause outside his bedroom door.

"Hey," Tsuzuru says.

Omi stays silent.

"Keeping your light on all night is bad for the electricity bill, you know." A sigh. "Yeah, that joke was pretty bad." Tsuzuru sighs again. "Miyoshi-san was telling me how Ikaruga-san has been pretty sullen, recently. He said something happened at the festival."

Omi's fingers twitch.

"I only know some of what happened, but… I wasn't lying when I said you seemed livelier, while you were still talking to Ikaruga-san." A hollow  _ thump  _ against the door. "So you messed up. Miyoshi-san and I mess up all the time, you know? It's not just you." Another thump. "I'm so bad at this. Just talk to him, alright?" Tsuzuru's voice lowers. "He put a smile on Fushimi-san that I had never seen before."

Tsuzuru walks away. For a long time, Omi simply lies there, contemplating the words in the light of his bedroom.

He lifts up his phone.

_ He put a smile on Fushimi-san that I had never seen before. _

_ I'll protect you. _

_ I have to go. _

He puts his phone back down.

  
  
  


"Fushimi-san," Tsuzuru asks him, "why do you keep people at a distance?"

Omi's chopsticks freeze in the air. After a moment, he finishes bringing the bite of vegetables to his mouth. He swallows. "Do I feel distant to you?" he replies. "That wasn't my intention."

"And that's the worst part!" Tsuzuru exclaims. "You're so nice, and approachable, but it's been a year and I've only just realized I know almost nothing about you. And it  _ bothers  _ me."

Omi exhales.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Tsuzuru continues.

Omi mechanically continues to eat, and tries to remember the last time he let someone see him. The last time he had something to let people see. "I'm not sure," Omi eventually answers. He hasn't been sure of anything since that January evening, that burned colder than any other. "I'm not sure at all."

Unexpectedly, Tsuzuru laughs. "I think this is the closest I've ever been to Fushimi-san."

Omi frowns. "Don't we sit like this most days?"

"We do," Tsuzuru agrees, "but I've never seen that expression on Fushimi-san before."

_ What expression,  _ Omi thinks.  _ What could you have possibly seen? _

But Tsuzuru is already moving on, like a wave inevitably approaching the shore.

Omi, for the first time in years, sinks his feet into the sand.


End file.
